Chapter Three #3
Isolde pulled the folder closer. “Real documentation accumulates nonsense.
Someone logs in twice because the first screen freezes.
An approval comes late because a phone rings.
Somebody clicks the wrong field. Systems throw errors.
People generate duplicate entries or notes that don't matter.” She traced the blank margin beside the timestamps rather than touching the printed data.
“When someone forges a historical record, they usually focus on making the important things right.
That's often where they give themselves away.”
“Because they leave out mistakes.”
“Because they create the version of reality they think should have existed instead of the one that actually would have.”
Taddeo looked down at the page.
“This could be heavily automated,” Isolde continued. “Maybe the cleanliness is normal. I don't know your system well enough to say otherwise. But if you're asking what bothers me, that's it.”
“I wasn't asking you to investigate.”
“No. You kidnapped me because you thought I knew where Corwin was, and apparently we've established that I don't.”
Taddeo ignored the edge in her voice. “You think someone framed him.”
“I think I don't know.”
She turned another page.
“What was his motive?”
“Eight point four million dollars.”
“That isn't a motive. That's what he allegedly took.”
“For a lot of people, it's enough.”
“Was Corwin in debt?”
“Not significantly.”
“Gambling?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Large cash withdrawals? New property? Anything showing he intended to disappear?”
“No.”
Isolde sat back.
That didn't prove innocence. It didn't even come close.
But it mattered.
“Corwin can be arrogant,” she said. “He can be secretive. He has a terrible habit of deciding he knows what's best for everybody in a room, including people who never asked him. I'm not going to tell you he's morally incapable of doing something stupid because I love him.”
Something in Taddeo's face changed.
“What I don't understand is why someone smart enough to steal eight point four million dollars through all of this would leave his name at every stage. His credentials. His hardware. His device. Then disappear the same night.” She looked down at the file.
“Maybe guilty people really are that convenient. But I wouldn't stop asking questions.”
Taddeo's gaze shifted briefly toward the locked cabinet.
Isolde saw it.
“You've thought the same thing.”
“I've considered weaknesses in the evidence.”
“That isn't what I said.”
“It's the answer you're getting.”
She watched him for another second and let it go. The refusal itself told her enough.
Taddeo took the folder when she finished and returned it to the cabinet.
“If you remember anything unusual about Corwin before he disappeared, tell me.”
The Harbor Pilot appeared in Isolde's mind immediately.
Faded cloth. Bad stitching. Modern adhesive.
Corwin arriving at the museum with the book tucked beneath one arm and an explanation she'd accepted because it sounded ordinary enough.
She also remembered questions he'd asked recently about old harbor redevelopment records, the kind of half-interested conversation she'd dismissed because his work wandered through subjects she couldn't always follow.
Isolde kept her face still.
Taddeo closed the cabinet and turned. “Anything?”
“I'm thinking.”
“That sounded like you remembered something.”
“It sounded like I said I'm thinking.”
His gaze remained fixed on her. “If it's relevant, keeping it from me won't help him.”
“You don't get to decide that.”
“No. But I get to tell you what I think.”
“You've been extremely generous with that.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Isolde stood and walked toward the doorway.
“You should lock this,” she said.
“I intend to.”
“Good.”
Taddeo leaned lightly against the desk. “You sound pleased.”
“If I get in again after you lock it, I'll have learned something much more useful.”
His expression flattened.
This time, Isolde couldn't stop the small smile.
She stepped into the corridor.
“Isolde.”
She turned.
Taddeo remained inside the office, his manner less severe than when he'd found her there but more watchful.
“I'm serious about Corwin. If you remember something, tell me.”
For a moment Isolde saw the old book as clearly as if it lay on the desk between them: worn boards, loosened spine, new stitching where old stitching should have been.
Maybe it meant nothing.
Maybe Corwin really had found it at an estate sale because the word Crownport reminded him of her.
But until she understood why the memory bothered her, she wasn't handing it to Taddeo.
“I heard you.”
His gaze stayed on her long enough that she knew he understood she hadn't answered.
He let her leave anyway.
Isolde continued toward the central hall, mentally revising what she understood about Northglass. The office would be locked next time. The obvious exterior routes were useless. Security watched without needing to hover. Elettra noticed more than Isolde would have preferred.
More importantly, the problem itself had changed.
When she'd woken that morning, there had seemed to be two possibilities. Either Corwin had stolen $8.4 million from dangerous men and disappeared, or Taddeo Malfatti had taken her over a mistake.
Now she wasn't certain the answer had to be one or the other.
Corwin might be guilty.
He might also not be the only person involved.
And somewhere back at the Crownport Maritime Museum, a century-old harbor book her brother had placed directly into her hands was waiting for her to look at it properly.